Krystal

By Michael Grant

Back in 1973 Johnny Carson made a joke about a toilet paper shortage. The next morning many of his 20 million viewers rushed out to their local supermarkets and cleared the shelves of toilet paper. And of course we all know about Oprah's legendary power to turn obscure books into overnight best sellers and unknown people into media stars.
Talk show hosts like Johnny Carson and Oprah inspire almost religious fervor in their audiences. Television is indeed a powerful medium.
As the novel opens, Krystal is the hottest talk show host on TV. She has it all—fame, a successful clothing and perfume line, a best-selling book, and Chandler Davis, a good-looking ex-soap hunk, for a manager and lover. But Krystal’s empire is beginning to show cracks in the foundation. Her product sales are beginning to slip, a serious competitor has arrived on the scene, and her Nielsen ratings are in free-fall.
Then, literally, a miracle saves her career. A blind woman’s sight is restored on the show and suddenly the “miracle” is being discussed on everything from Good Morning America and 20/20 to countless blogs. Krystal is back on top. But is it a miracle, a medical anomaly, or a hoax? Everyone wants to know: does Krystal have the power to restore sight to the blind?
Toss into the mix Reece Kagan, Krystal's sleazy, unscrupulous producer and a man who is obsessed with keeping the show on top at any cost, and the Reverend Darius, a conman, scripture-spouting Brooklyn storefront minister who specializes in miracles on demand—and you have Network meets Elmer Gantry, a black satire novel which examines two of our most influential institutions in America today: religion and television.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Grant
• Release date: Aug 9, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465958723

Michael Grant

Michael Grant, author of the Gone series, the Messenger of Fear series, the Magnificent Twelve series, and the Front Lines trilogy, has spent much of his life on the move. Raised in a military family, he attended ten schools in five states, as well as three schools in France. Even as an adult he kept moving, and in fact he became a writer in part because it was one of the few jobs that wouldn’t tie him down. His fondest dream is to spend a year circumnavigating the globe and visiting every continent. Yes, even Antarctica. He lives in California with his wife, Katherine Applegate, with whom he cowrote the wildly popular Animorphs series. You can visit him online at www.themichaelgrant.com and follow him on Twitter @MichaelGrantBks.

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Krystal

by Michael Grant

Copyright 2011 Michael Grant

Smashwords Edition

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Special Thanks to Elizabeth Nardone and Sandi Nadolny for their careful reading of the manuscript. Nevertheless, any mistakes remaining are mine entirely.

CHAPTER ONE

The sleek, super stretch limo looked strangely out of place on the mountainous and potholed back roads of West Virginia where one was more likely to see belching tractors, rusting pickup trucks, or even the occasional mule.

Seated in the cavernous rear of the limo, Reece Kagan, the executive producer of TV's hottest daytime show, the Krystal Show, also looked strangely out of place. In an industry populated by an exceptional number of startlingly beautiful women and matinee-handsome men, all of whom harbored secret fantasies of one day finding their rightful place on the red-eye side of the cameras, Reece Kagan stood out like a belly dancer in a Shiite mosque.

His pinched face, beady eyes, and pointed features gave him a rodent-like appearance. He was also short to the point of being dangerously close to the definition of a dwarf. Like most diminutive men, he was sensitive about his size. To increase his height he wore custom-made shoes with cleverly designed heels that gave him an additional two inches. To create an illusion of even more elevation, he larded liberal globs of styling gel into his hair and spiked it. The unintended effect succeeded in making him look like he had two greasy horns growing out of his head. He was also anorexic-thin. With a supercharged metabolism that would make a hummingbird green with envy, he had the ability to mainline Twinkies twenty-four-seven with no ill effect whatsoever. That was the good part. The bad part was that being short and emaciated made him look like—well, a dying elf.

Unlike most of his contemporaries on the business side of the industry, Reece had no illusions about becoming a TV star. To compensate for his lack of good looks and short stature, he was ambitious to the point of fanaticism. And that fanaticism had already paid off. At twenty-six, Reece Kagan was the youngest executive producer at the Taylor Broadcasting Company.

And that fanaticism was also the reason why he had forsaken the safety and comfort of his pricy condo on the upper Westside to trek deep into the darkest heart of West Virginia. He was here on a mission: bag the illusive Traci Tew. Within the tiny circle of TV talk show producers, Traci epitomized the Holy Grail of guests. She was uneducated, gullible, and with a compelling story that—and this is important— could easily be ridiculed by an audience.

Traci started out life as Tracy. At seventeen, he joined the Marine Corps and served in Iraq where he received a purple heart. A year after his return, it occurred to him that all along there had been a woman trapped in his body and she wanted out. One year later, Tracy became Traci. As daytime TV fare went, Traci's story was not all that unusual. But what made her story unique, was that she had fifteen siblings and she had convinced six of them that they, too, should switch sexes. Now that was a story worthy of the Krystal Show.

Along on this hunting expedition was the newest member of the Krystal Show staff, production assistant, Brooke Leigh, who was wearing a napkin-size mini skirt and lethal-looking Manolo Blahnik alligator boots. The only reason Reece brought her alone was because he was hoping to get into her pants before they got back to New York. But some asshole at the travel agency screwed up his specific instructions to book them into a hotel for the night, and instead, booked them on a same day return flight.

Twenty-one-year-old Brooke, as well as most of the other female PAs, associate producers and bookers on the show, were all young, attractive, and way-to-thin with degrees in communications from colleges like Smith, Radcliff, and Bryn Mawr. And there wasn't a shrinking violet among them. Since their sandbox days, and later, exclusive, private daycare centers, prep schools, and colleges, they'd been competing and jockeying to become numero uno. And after college, they'd fought fiercely to obtain their highly competitive positions and the privilege of working fifteen-hour days for less money than an average supermarket checkout clerk made.

But it wasn't about the money. They'd ruthlessly clawed their way into jobs on the Krystal Show not only because it was glamorous and exciting, but because they had visions of one day becoming producers or even—ohmigod!—hosts of their very own TV shows. It didn't have to be about the money because most of them had a safety net called Daddy, who lived in upscale enclaves like Scarsdale, Darien, and Manhasset and who was either a corporate raider, a plastic surgeon, a hedge fund manager—or someone with a high enough pay grade to easily afford subsidizing his child's two-thousand-dollar-plus monthly rent on a closet-size apartment in Manhattan.

Reece looked at his watch. Jesus H. Christ! Hey, Bubba, he shouted to the driver, it's been three hours since we left the goddamn airport. When are we gonna get to… He snapped his fingers at Brooke, Where are we going?

Brooke consulted her notes. Muddy Springs Hollow.

The driver, who looked like he'd be more comfortable wearing a John Deere baseball cap than a chauffeur's hat, said, Well, sir, there's lots of hollers 'round about these here parts and it ain't always easy findin' 'em.

That's probably why I couldn't Google it, Brooke said. He should pull over and ask someone, but men never want to ask for directions.

Hey, pal. Pull over and let's ask for directions.The driver pulled into Clive's Gas and Food Emporium. A man, presumably Clive, wearing bib overalls and a greasy Pennzoil cap, sauntered over to them. Reece noted that the man looked remarkably like the chauffeur and could have been living kin. Then it occurred to him that, given his admittedly limited experience in the state, almost all the people in West Virginia looked alike.

Clive sized up the enormous limo. Damn, y'all must get about a mile to the gallon with this thing.

Reece pressed a button and the window went down with a soft hiss. We're looking for… He snapped his fingers at Brooke. What are we looking for?

Muddy Springs Hollow.

Clive took off his cap and scratched his bald head. Muddy Springs Hollow, y'all say? Well, there's Big Mountain Holler about five miles west of the interstate. Then there's Pig Holler over yonder hill. And then, there's—

Hey, Bubba, spare me a litany of every holler in the state. I just want the one called—?

Muddy Springs Hollow, Brooke said.

Can't say I ever heard of that one.

Reece rolled up the window. See what happens when you inbreed? That guy looks like he's right out of Deliverance. Let's go. We're wasting time here.

As the limo pulled out of Clive's Gas and Food Emporium, Reece patted Brooke's exposed knee. Point of information. The reason men don't stop for directions is because it's futile. Nobody knows where the fuck they are.

It was almost dusk when the chauffeur, after numerous consultations with a string of gas station attendants and roadside fireworks entrepreneurs, turned on to a muddy dirt road.

Well, sir, the Tew house is supposed to be right up this road.

The limo hit a pothole and bottomed out with bone-jarring thump and a crash of metal.

What the hell was that? Reece shouted.

The driver looking out his side view mirror. We lost a hubcap.

Well, keep going. You can pick it up on the way back.

Just then the limo hit another pothole so hard it launched Brooke onto the floor. We should have rented a Hummer, she said crawling back onto her seat.

Not impressive enough, Reece said. Something you gotta remember about booking guests on our show. You do everything you can to impress them. Before Tracy was Traci, she--he--spent a year in Iraq. I imagine he's seen enough Hummers to last him--her--a lifetime. A stretch limo works every time. It never fail to impress.

The limo bottomed out again and there was a loud tear of metal on metal. Uh oh, the driver said. I think we lost the muffler.

All right, all right. Reece shouted. Stop right here. Jesus Christ, if we keep losing parts we'll be going back to the airport on mules. He got out of the limo and immediately stepped in something very squishy. Ah, shit, he muttered staring down at his expensive custom-made shoes, now submerged in a large brown puddle with the consistency of chocolate pudding.

Oh, my God! That's what it is, Brooke shrieked, horrified that she was about to expose her incredibly expensive Manolo Blahnik alligator boots to this primordial swamp.

After a quarter mile slog up a road that was more tank trail than road, they came to a clearing in front of the Tew house.

Reece, severely out of shape and gasping for breath, leaned against a tree. His idea of strenuous exercise was using two remotes at the same time. He studied the scene before him. Jesus H. Christ. It looks exactly like the kind of house that guy Jeff Foxworthy is always making fun of. It's all here. The sagging porch, the paint-blistered clapboard, the old Chevy up on blocks, and even a mangy hound—Whoa! With a start, Reece realized that the mangy hound, obviously energized by the sight of fresh meat, was bearing down on them with blood-curdling howls and bared fangs.

Reece ducked behind Brooke. You have a dog. Do something.

Do what? I have a Pekingese for God's sake. I don't know anything about werewolves.

Just as the dog was about to lunge for Brooke and presumably rip her throat out, a voice called out, Daisy, you old fool, get back here.

Daisy? Reece and Brooks said together, staring at a dog that was the size of a hairy VW Beetle.

A young woman wearing jeans and a sweatshirt waved at them from the sagging porch. Howdy, folks. Don't mind Daisy, she's gentle as a lamb.

Yeah, a lamb with rabies, Reece muttered. Then he waved back. And you must be Traci Tew.

Yes, sir. Come on up and set a spell.

A rigid Reece , sitting in a listing wooden rocker on the front porch and watching Daisy slobber all over the leg of his Armani suit, tried to look on the bright side. At least the vicious brute wasn't gnawing on his femur. His shoes were a total loss, and now, so was his suit. But what the hell. Shit happens. He glanced at Traci and smiled his most ingratiating smile. It was all worth it, he reminded himself. He'd snagged her. Besides, he could always write off the suit and shoes.

Reece studied Traci's siblings, who'd dutifully lined up by size places. Six boys, nine girls, ages five through nineteen. Given his druthers, he would liked to have brought the entire litter to New York, but the cost, he knew, would be prohibitive. Oh, well. He rubbed his hands together. Time for business. Let's cull the herd.

Traci had just introduced them, but after a couple of Sally-Mae-Lou-this and Joe-John-Billy-Bob-that, he'd lost track of who was who. Still, he could swear that he'd heard the same name at least twice. These West Virginians were a strange lot. Well, maybe no stranger than George Foreman who named all his sons George. Reece wondered if Foreman came from West Virginia.

OK, so who are the ones who want a sex change? he asked.

Three boys and three girls shyly raised their hands. One of the girls couldn't have been more than nine. Whoa! Would that make good TV or what? Careful not to make a sudden move that might arouse the beast, who was now looking at him as though he were contemplating humping his leg, Reece said, OK, all you normal kids are dismissed.

After they left, he said to the nine-year-old, So, Sally Mae...

Betty Lou. Traci corrected.

Right. Betty Lou. Why do you want to become a boy?

Betty Lou shrugged. I don't know. It might be fun I guess.

It occurred to Reece that maybe Betty Lou wouldn't be such a good guest after all and he dismissed her. He carefully questioned the remaining five and they all offered reasonable explanations why they wanted to rearrange their plumbing. Reasonable, that is, if you considered it reasonable to want to whack off your dick, if you're a boy, and have one sewn on, if you're a girl. Reece wondered if it might be possible for the girls to get their brothers penises. It would certainly solve the tissue rejection issue. What a TV show that would be. He already knew what the title of the show would be: All in the Family.

So, Traci, how has your life changed since the operation?

Not much. Now I spell my name with an i instead of a y."

I see.

Reece was beginning to suspect that Traci and her entire family were insane. But that wasn't his problem, was it? Truth was, insane people made great guests. Still, he found it odd that even a crazy person wouldn't understand that changing your sex orientation had considerably more profound implications than just the spelling of your name. She would, he decided, require a lot of coaching. And so too would her lunatic brothers and sisters.

But, that's the way it was with most guests. They were either too shy, too introverted, or simply clueless to be any good on TV. It was his job to make them stars—at least for their fifteen minutes of fame. He'd done this so often it had become second nature to him. First order of business was to create sympathy for her with the audience. He would do this by getting her to talk about how her surgery had been excruciatingly painful, even if it wasn't. It was also important to tie her Marine Corps service into the story as well. He would get her to confide to the audience about how terrible she felt being drummed out of the Marine Corp retirees association, assuming such an organization existed. There was a lot to do, but there would be plenty of time for that when they got to New York. All in all, destroyed wardrobe aside, he was feeling pretty good about the whole thing. This was a fine day's work. Krystal would be pleased.

OK, Traci, he said, rubbing his hands together. On behalf of Krystal, I think we're ready to make a deal here. Of course, you know we can't pay you for your appearance. When he saw the crestfallen expression on her face, he added quickly, But we will pay all expenses for you and your family, including first-class airfare, exquisite accommodations at a four-star New York City hotel, and twenty-four-seven limo service to take you and your family anywhere you want to go. Plus, a little spending money. How does that sound?

It sounds very nice, Reece, but the man who works for Lance Corbin said he'd do all that and pay me, too.

Lance Corbin, that sonofabitch. In frustration, Reece pounded his knee with his fist, causing Daisy to raise the hackles on her back and bare her teeth. Reece quickly folded his arms, and, sitting rigidly at attention, desperately tried to come up with a way to trump Corbin's offer. He hadn't come all the way to darkest West Virginia to let Corbin, the Krystal Show's biggest competition, bag Traci Tew. Hell no. He'd assumed the sleazy bastard would send his minions to try and snatch Traci for themselves, so he'd taken the usual precautions. He'd bribed the limo company at the airport. In the event Corbin's people showed up, the driver was to take them anywhere in the state—except Muddy Springs Hollow.

Assuming his most pained expression, Reece said, I must tell you, Traci, offering to pay you is a violation of the producer's code of ethics, a whole slew of FCC regulations, and well, it's just plain immoral.

I'm sorry, but I need the money. I still owe for my operation.

I understand. How much is he offering?

Two thousand dollars for me and one thousand for each of my brothers and sisters.

What a cheap bastard! They were worth twice that. Ordinarily, I assure you, Traci, I would never breech my personal code of ethics, but since you need money to pay for your surgery, I'm prepared to offer you three thousand, and fifteen hundred for your brothers and sisters.

That's very generous of you, Reece.

Please. It's the least I could do.

Reece was reaching into his pocket for the contract when Traci said, The thing is, I'm not sure I want to go on television and talk about this. It's so… personal.

What a pain in the ass. This psycho whacks off his dick so he can wear makeup and high heels and now he wants to get all self-conscious? Reece could sense he was losing him--her. It was time to pull out all the stops. He wanted to reach out and take Traci's hand, but he didn't think Daisy would go for it. Too bad, because, from experience he'd learned that when you reach out and physically touch someone, they have a harder time saying no to you.

I hear you, he said with as much sincerity as he could muster. It is personal. But, Traci, I want you to think about what a great service you could provide for the millions of young men and women out there who are contemplating what you have done. Your story would be such a comfort to them. They would learn that they are not alone.

I guess that's true, but the thing is, Reece, I'm not sure I did the right thing. I mean, sometimes I wonder if there's something wrong with me.

Of course there's something wrong with you, you moron, but this is no time for buyer's remorse. I've got a program to put on.

Traci, I know just how you feel. I do. I really do. He waited for that to sink in and then blurted out, All right. I didn't want to say this, but, well, I have a confession to make. When I was sixteen, I had thoughts about becoming a woman myself. There. I said it.

Oh, my. Really?

Reece bowed his head and bit his lip like he'd see Bill Clinton do when he was caught acting like an asshole.

Then you know what I've gone through. The doubts, the heartache, the ridicule.

Yes. All of that and more. I even read the literature on sex change operations.

Why didn't you go through with it?

"Why you ask? Well,